Author: albarclay

Gruene Hall stakes a good claim as the oldest dance hall in Texas. We were all there. I was in my cowboy boots. They’re still pretty expensive by the minute of use, but they’re getting cheaper over the time I’m in Texas. It was a local band playing – Silvercloud. Steel guitars and drums, all behatted, good looking young men with music. We had a fine dance.

Their last song was almost certainly not called what I think it was called: “I’m not mad (I just had some crisps.)” Still, we danced to it like we had had way too many of those crisps and it was a blast.

We were experimenting with lifts on the dance floor by the end, fueled by the necessity to burn off a steak the size of a dead badger that I had just forced down my gullet. It was fun and physical. Now I’m exhausted and so happy. The band thanked us for the dancing. We thanked them. We were eejits. And we loved it.

Bridget is driving us home. What a glorious Texas night. I’ve had a great time in the Lone Star State so far and this night and this band have added to it.

“I think they were very genuine,” says Bridget. “I didn’t like country music until I started dancing to it. I didn’t do the two step in Illinois. Now I just … feel it.” I know what she means. That band tonight were local and – yes, very genuine. They told us on the mic how often they had been on the dance floor watching other bands play, and now here they were on the stage.

I had to learn the two step and I still don’t quite get the pattern but it goes a little something like this: “Slow, slow quick quick slow, slow, quick quick slow slow quick quick sick pant quick quick blow flow oh no quick quick go woe thick twit no yo? slow shit shit NO no no that’s my toe!”

Today I got a group of young men and women to baa like sheep, and commit to it. I called it education. We were looking at The Second Shepherd’s Play in The Wakefield Cycle and my thinking was that if they’re going to be exploring it for comedy somebody would need to be confident and loud with sheep noises. It’s the one where a couple pretend a stolen sheep is their baby when the shepherds come looking. That’s been my actual work.

I’ve also had everybody on the internet shouting at me about a non-existent leak from my flat which has been stressful and wearing in the extreme when I’ve been totally unable to do anything about it and when Brian is literally busier than he’s ever been in his life. It might be something invisible. But I think unfortunately it’s the rain. The guys we paid all that money to in order to fix it – they didn’t fix it. More money, I imagine. It never rains but it pours.

I’m back in my room, remembering that I’ve got to get these boots off before I can crash out and dream of something other than flooding please. It is literally all kicking off at home at the worst possible time. And here I am and all I can do is my best. Another useful lesson in zen, while everybody is shouting at me.

My dreams keep taking me to London, weirdly. I’m very happy here but London’s calling. I live by the river! I keep dreaming mundane dreams about my friends. I even dreamt a brilliant birthday present that I’m probably going to put into practice in due course. Variation is the spice of life though. And San Antonio is sufficiently unfamiliar to keep me happy.

I woke with the cockerel – early but hungover and knowing I’d have to go in and talk to 45 young adults about slavery. It turned out to be a very positive session, but the first ten minutes involved me getting us all to say “Yes!” to each other in a circle in various different ways, mostly as a way of shifting our slow shared energy into something positive together. It worked. It switched up the group. There was some good engagement by the end of the session.

I like this split focus, workshops and shows. The daytimes are spent examining how we go about our craft and trying to communicate it to people from many different walks of life and cultural backgrounds. Then in the evenings we all go on stage and make a story out of nothing but our own belief in it and one man’s ancient words.

When one of us is tired or upset or distracted it shows in all of us. We are all so bonded now and in effortless comprehension of each other’s state of mind and body. We look after each other as best we can, and we really do, and know how to.

The music feels much more organic as we go through. I love how my accordion has ended up on tour with me. We’ve made room for it in the show. I get to practice a little bit every day, and before long I might actually put it on my CV. But we can all stand on stage playing something and have moments of musical togetherness, and the power of the five of us with nothing is, essentially, the whole point of the job. Yes we tell the play, and do it skillfully. But the major USP to my mind is the fact that it’s just five actors and a suitcase being idiots round America. We’ve got each other. And that’s a lot. We’ll give it a shot.

I’ve been writing while eating pizza. We ordered some in. We were starving post show but by the time it came I’d had a few beers and lost my appetite. I managed two slices before sliding back and getting started on this. The guys appreciate my antisocial tendencies. Especially since it’s late tonight. The time difference doesn’t blend well with my ill hours.

Our next show is Friday night at The Empire Theatre downtown. It’s basically a West End venue. They have told us where the scene dock is so we can unload the van. We will arrive with a blue suitcase and no van, and have three lighting cues. I’m curious to see how they react…

I couldn’t really remember the Alamo so it was nice to swing in again.

Jono was as excited as I had been the first time. We were both reared on various ethically questionable swashbuckling tales and films and so the mission where Davy Crockett met his bear had always featured in our imaginations as a significant place. A borderland problem between Mexico and Texas, borne out horribly in blood on both sides. Crockett and his companions holding out impossibly until the last. A glorious defeat that helped towards a more lasting victory.

“Remember the Alamo,” said the signs in the Texas Lone Star restaurant in Gloucester Road when I was 12. “Do you remember?” my dad would ask with a glint in his eye. “Remember what?” He’d point at the plaque on the wall. “Remember the Alamo.” I’d forget by the time we went there again. That was my dad’s sense of humour. Year after year. Until one day, 16 year old “over it” Al mumbled “Yeah dad, the Alamo,” at which point he immediately pointed at another sign I hadn’t even noticed saying “Remember Sabine Pass,” rolled his eyes and said “You kids never remember Sabine Pass, all you care about is The Alamo,” and in so doing won my begrudging teenage respect for a joke many years in the making.

I had a bit of chauffeur work to do in the morning getting people back and forth to classes, so even though I’d booked a day off I lost the morning. The afternoon saw Jono and I trundling around exploring San Antonio with no set plan whatsover. We fell into The Esquire just in time for Happy Hour, and as a result had an extremely tasty American style tapas for next to nothing.

Sometimes stumbling really is the best way to find a new place. The Esquire overlooks the Riverwalk and is full of taxidermy. We enjoyed our food. I just worried for the poor lynxes.

I booked a table tonight at a restaurant I found on the internet. Bliss, it’s called. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but the menu looks fab and I want a good birthday meal with plenty of wine. I’m driving in to UTSA at 8am tomorrow to get a bunch of young men and women to engage with a poem about slavery. I don’t want to be too vulnerable in the morning, although if I have to demonstrate emotionally available work those tears are very close when I’m hungover

Ok so it’s before midnight and I’m in my room. That’s a win, yes? Sure I blew about $300 on high class alcohol and tasty bits. But that’s nothing in the scheme of things. I had a lovely night. I also had foie gras in a room with two right headed vegetarians – people who are denying themselves nice things on purpose because someone has to bellwether. I used my birthday as an excuse. And I had a yummy meal with them 

Bollocks I’ve got to get up early tomorrow, and be coherent and inspiring. Plus it’s past midnight here which means blog time. Morning, uk. 🙂

It’s the autumn equinox and I’m lying under palm trees by a pool in San Antonio thinking about home. This business with Thomas Cook. Shape of things to come? Millions of British people stuck in foreign countries. Millions more stuck in their own country and upset about being unable to get out?

“We moved over here a year ago,” I’m told by one of the people I’ll be working with in San Antonio. She’s from the UK. I’m going in to a class of hers to help her literature students understand how to bring out emotion through language in poetry recital. She’s chosen a Hannah More poem about slavery. It looks like an interesting session.

She used to work at a university in Bristol before here, hence perhaps her choice of a Bristolian bluestocking writing iambic pentameter about the slave trade. “I loved my home life in Bristol, but the state of Humanities Education in the UK…” Her eyes finish the sentence. It’s not in a good state according to those eyes, people. Newsflash.

“My husband can’t work yet, but I’m happier in my work over here,” she continues. “We live as well here on my wage as we did in Bristol on combined wages…” She hasn’t found her crowd yet though. Her eyes are hungry for company. It must be strange relocating completely like that. San Antonio is very unlike Bristol. Especially right now, when it seems the UK is on fire. I miss London a bit now despite the impending car crash. I miss my friends, Pickle and a plate of food in a restaurant that has vegetables and leaves you hungry.

I’m reasonably sheltered from UK news over here as we aren’t really that important to the USA, even though they kinda like the English in the same way they kinda like chipmunks. They occasionally find themselves engaged: “awww look at that ancient half blind chipmunk. It wants both of the nuts and it can only have one. It’s smashing them both and hurting itself. Stoopid little critter. It’s gnawed off its own leg now! Shall we help it? Nah. Let nature take its course.”

We are basically a bizarre ancient nation of narrow people with bad teeth and funny accents dismantling themselves in some sort of sad inevitable international grand guignol clown-show. Slowly slicing our noses down the middle with razors, pulling our tongues out through holes dug in our throats with our filthy desperate fingers, popping out our shining hopeful eyes whilst rasping the word “sovereign” until we lose so much blood that we can rasp no more.

And I’m just sitting by the pool letting it unfold and observing it. At least we’ll get that money for the NHS I guess.

All five of us are tired after travel day, even though it’s been a light journey. It’s a lovely fellowship. We just get on with it but stick together. Katherine is planning an early morning lesson. Kaffe and I are both blogging. He’s writing the official showblog, which is infinitely harder as you can’t just indulge in ridiculous Brexit similes. Claire and Jono are working out details of the cars tomorrow. Claire is looking out for my interests as she knows I’ll want the car tomorrow for my birthday for a few hours just to do my usual thing of jiggling around and looking at stuff. Without wheels we are trapped in this hotel. But this whole unit of five is remarkable. We all fit well around each other. We all bring something to the table. And we all have fun when we can. And sit in a circle working if it seems the right thing to do. Feels like a true fellowship. And there’s a lot of ground to cover yet.

It’s a festival atmosphere on sixth Street today in the roasting sunshine. Rolling live music competes with the hum of the crowd. Bouncy castles bang up against face painting stalls. We paid ten bucks to park for two hours. We tried not to buy expensive souvenirs. I was designated driver for the day and ended up with the best kombucha I’ve ever had. Austin is like that. There are two vegetarians in the company and they haven’t starved. San Antonio will be the wildlands for them.
Last day in this amazing town. Our day off. Time passes as we spin around from place to place, trying to take it all in, exhausting ourselves in the process. I hived off from the group for a bit to get some meat in Franklin Barbeque. Melt in the mouth brisket. I’ve eaten so much meat in this town, despite the vegetarian options being more robust than usual. It just seemed to be the right thing to do.
Early evening saw us camped out under Congress Bridge trying to see the bats. They deliberately made the bridge to hold a roost for millions of bats, and in the summer months to early fall they all come out like they’re trying to remind Bruce Wayne he’s neglecting his duty. They’re a good thing to have around. They can eat so many mosquitos in such a short space of time. The most efficient and clean means possible of making sure that people are happy to stay up all night on the hot streets around the river. Those bats contribute to the success of Rainey Street.

It’s not much of a spectacle really though. Certainly not one to photograph without a very good lens. It took us ages to adjust our eyes to see the bloody things. Eventually as we wandered home we found a crack in the bridge further up the track where they were pouring out, but my Uber was coming and people were waiting for us in the restaurant so we only had a few minutes to see them. It was definitely a thing. I would be disappointed not to have done it.
Ditto The Continental Club, where I write this to you. Claire just came to check up on me. I’m fine. I’ve just got half an hour before this publishes and I’m planning on doing some dancing.

I have no idea who the band are, but they’re playing what they describe as genuine bona-fide Texas music, and they’re wearing ten gallon hats so they must be legit. The pianist is British though. I’m enjoying it from my little perch in the corner of the room but I look like the guy who goes to the gig and checks Facebook. So far nobody has “come up to help out that lonely guy in the corner” thank God, but I’m just motoring out words to the rythmn of the band until the little number in the corner starts with a five. Then I’m dancing y’all.

The Winedale Historical Centre operates a programme every year where kids do a Shakespeare Summer Camp. They do three or four plays and they have about a week to work on each. They put the kids through rep with Shakespeare, performing in the evenings and rehearsing a different play in the daytime. It’s hot here – really hot. So they start early in the morning. They then stay up late laughing and bonding. A beautiful way to make lifelong friends. The programme is over for the year now, but we were invited to bring our Twelfth Night to play to a full house in the barn. Right here! In the barn.

Over 90 degree heat. We arrive at about 2pm and we have to completely reblock the show. We have multiple entrances and exits and levels and windows. We want to respond to the space, not teleport our show in there despite the space. So we are thinking and working in the heat together, the five of us, supported by the team. Incredibly supported, using the windows and the levels and the entrances. Experimenting.

“I love that we feed off adrenaline,” I remark to Kaffe just before the show. Both of us are smiling through a huge hit of the stuff, getting ready for the first half, recalibrating our heads, getting into the zone, managing the potential for white noise, surfing the wave of the unknown.

We’ve had very little time to make sense of the show in this amazing space, and we’ve watched some local kids speak beautiful Shakespeare as well when perhaps we should’ve been preparing. Before the show they presented their scene work to a crowd of their parents and us. It was really moving to see their diligence and straightforward understanding of the scenes. The kids were in the audience for us, stage right. We wanted to make a good show for them.

I have never sweated so much in my life. Belch is a muscular part to work through in that heat. By the end of the first half I was drenched in sweat. I changed my T-shirt. The whole show landed beautifully though, in that beautiful place. In the curtain call we invited the kids onto the stage to bow with us. They were thrilled.

Then, in a pool of light, beer in hand, we packed up the case again. San Antonio next week, and we will be driven there, so weight is not such an issue with the showcase. People came and joined us in our little pool of light. Happy parents and kids. Happy audience members and ex Winedale kids and current ones.

The programme hits its fiftieth year next year and I know I would have loved it. Hard work, early mornings, Shakespeare boot camp. It’s a beautiful thing. All the kids were there, with their Shakespeare bandanas, Shakespeare T-Shirts, Shakespeare Denim shirts. Reader, I bought them all. I’m covered in images of Shakespeare in a stetson. Last time I just bought the flask and had it for a year before I left it on a train in the Peak District. This year I went full merch and I’m shameless about it. I love this place.

After the bag pack we all lay out under the stars. “One year there was a kid whose dad was an astronaut” says Clayton. We all lay out here and we could see the space station passing by with his dad on it and he had his dad on speakerphone while we could watch him go over.” Astronomical.

As we loaded into the car we heard the coyotes cry from the darkness outside our circle of light. We all came together in the darkness, the five of us. Here we are, this tiny group, a long way from home, guided and encouraged through unfamiliar places. Given a platform on which we can shine together, channeling these five hundred year old messages of love and laughter, of kindness and duty, of play and work, of life and death. Making something we believe in and trusting that our audiences will come with us.

Now I’m being driven back into town. Jazz on the radio. Accordion to my right and a whole box of beer that we can’t drink as it’s illegal.

“You’ll sleep well tonight,” they told us as they saw our bodies shift into shutdown after the show. I’ll certainly fall asleep well. From there, who knows? The dreams are busy on this tour, as busy as the inside of my head. But today, at Winedale, at the end of this long long summer, I found one of those moments I can forever hold. In the dark times we look to the light if we can. Today was a time of the light, as the stars shone down on our little troupe.

I’m lying on a grassy knoll alongside half the population of Austin. Barton Springs. Not really wild wild swimming. A strip of cool water. Very specific places where you can jump in without someone shouting at you. $9 on the door. Well laid turf and selected trees. Laughter, chat, birds, wind and the irregular bang of the diving board as repeating lines of young men succeed or fail at ephemeral experimental aerobatics. “Did you see that?” “Nah I was thinking about what I’d do, man.”

I jumped in but not from the board. Signs everywhere saying not to but it was definitely deep enough for a shallow dive. I just had to wait for the dude not to be looking. I didn’t get shouted at but hellfire it was colder than I anticipated. It took my breath away for a moment. Then I had a good swim. Glad of the exercise, and the break. My last workshop was this morning so now it’s just the show until next week in San Antonio.

You can just about tell that these springs were once natural. As with so much in America they have been snipped and trimmed and landscaped and controlled. We are safe here. Very very safe. Our safety is important and we are having our safe interests safely attended to by safety trained safeguards in safety.

Claire’s with me getting noshed on by black ants. The guards can’t protect us from ants. They don’t like me for some reason, but they’re loving munching her legs. I think we might have to go soon as I don’t want to do the show with sunstroke. It’s really hot. Plus I’m starving.

Not anymore. We went to Terry Black’s Barbeque and had all the meat. After all, we’re in Texas. And they really do know their barbeques out here. I’m sitting here in the wind and the sun now, reveling in the fact that I feel completely full and rested and warm and well. Last night my point of focus was how hard I can push into the physicality of my characters. It left me exhausted. Today I’m going to focus on relaxing into them and only spamming energy when absolutely needed. No time for a siesta today and tomorrow will be a long day at Winedale…

Backstage at the theatre now pre-show and Heather has just offered to drive us all into Rainey Street in her pick-up after the show. We will have to pack up the show case again tonight to take it all down to Winedale for tomorrow, so God knows what time we will get to Rainey Street on this hot Football Friday. Hopefully it won’t be too crazy out there.

Show’s over. Case is packed. Instruments are in the pick-up to go to Winedale. I was still sweating like anything when we finished the show. I’m feeling a little more normal now. Lovely shows in this recital room, with a delightful Texas audience. We are starting to move now.

I’ve slipped into a good routine now for the tour. We usually have a duty in the morning of some description. Today I was teaching a bunch of 21 year old English Lit students how to sing a Shakespearean catch. So it’s wake up, plan, work a bit. Then I get coffee somewhere – this time with an enthusiastic lad who wanted to bounce his excellent idea for a Hamlet around with me in Medici. I love Medici: “Can you do a flat white?” “Yes we can.” None of this “What size?” bullshit. I talked to him a bit about his Henry IV monologue too – worked with him as much as it’s possible in a coffee shop. Nice way to spend some time.

Then a few hours of exploring before I reconnect with the guys, usually involving late lunch with carbs. Yesterday was Tetsu-ya for ramen – so good. Today I’ve gone Korean with bubble tea and spicy chicken at Koriente.

I’m taking recommendations wherever possible and using this tasty and peaceful afternoon time to regather my energy and generosity before the Belch explosion. And to write this down as I’m pretty useless after the show.

Yesterday I walked off the nervous energy but the others came with me. It wasn’t a popular choice with the rest of the company, although the destination was worth the walking. We just aren’t used to this heat. Ten minutes into a half hour walk and some of the others were in open mutiny. Thankfully I didn’t get keelhauled, and the place we were heading to was open, pleasant and had vegetarian food options. But from now on it’ll be an uber xl after the show as we almost invariably are starving and thirsty and walking is less popular than I could’ve imagined. There are no easy dives near to the venue this week, and parking is a nightmare so we can’t drive to work.

To illustrate the parking thing, as we were leaving last night we met two 17 year old girls who had seen the show. “We loved it! It was awesome! But my car got towed.” They were being picked up by their mum, who rolled her eyes at us. “It’s a life lesson,” she remarks. $200 on a Shakespeare show? I guess some people can blow that on a seat for that guy off the telly playing Hamlet. But I felt sorry for them. I’d have preferred it if their first time going out to see a play together hadn’t resulted in such a punitive fine. The private towing firms are a blight in the US. They are so quick, and charge way too much.

Now I’m in my pre-show post lunch siesta time. I reckon it’s shower and snooze. There has just been a tremendous thundercrack which might put paid to my plan to go to Barton Springs tomorrow and have a swim. If it rains too much they close them as they’re worried about runoff from the fields.

It’s consistently 95 degrees though. Maybe a spot of thunder will help.

Hot hot morning in Austin. I lay on my bed, one leg dangling, surrounded by poems. Incense smouldered sufficiently far away from the smoke detector. Occasional hot tears trailed down my cheeks, mostly of wonder at the way in which a thought had been expressed. Occasionally a little cough, a sip of water, a moment of stopping and gazing out of the window in wonder at the fact that life has taken me here like this. To an outside eye I might as well have been consumptive, like some of the writers I was embodying.

I didn’t really know where I’d be doing the recital, having not taken the time to scout ahead. I didn’t even know whether or not I’d have a microphone, or what order I’d do the poems in. Strangely I wasn’t concerned about those details. I just wanted to make sure my choices hung together.

Shroothi my guide picked me up at half eleven. I was nervously rearranging pieces of paper in the foyer. She took me to the recital venue – a courtyard where thankfully there was a microphone conveniently located in a patch of sun. I’d be visible then, just baked in my three piece. “Take your jacket off”, says Jono. “Poets wear waistcoats.” I didn’t need to be told twice.

I’d been arguing with myself as to whether or not to start with The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. It’s a risk. It’s 25 minutes long and if I lose them they’re lost for good. I don’t know it like I know Nightingale, Ozymandias, Kubla etc. Should I start with something I’m more confident with? No. This is me you’re talking about. Almost despite myself, at the lectern I tell them I’ll start with Rime. It’s pretty easy to understand apart from that overlong bit with the spirits.

The audience is still there at the end, and I’ve gathered a crowd. I start to get swept up in the language and the arguments, bouncing through poem after poem, improvising links, changing styles, enjoying myself more and more. Claire is sat under a tree watching, Katherine and Kaffe are over on a wall to my right, Jono is hiding so he doesn’t throw me. The whole company is here to support me. If I ever fall off my energy I just need to look out and they’re all there radiating back at me. I have too much material, and a clock that marks the quarters so no need to consult my watch. Nonetheless I’m halfway through Tintern Abbey when the clock goes. I offer to stop but they’re having none of it so I click back in and then do I’ll go no more a’roving for the heck of it as a finisher. Lovely reaction. A gorgeous thing to have done, to share my love of C19th English Poetry with an audience of strangers and passers by in the heart of the Lone Star State.

Then I snuck off for ramen at Tetsu-ya. A good time for carbohydrates and nourishment. We are all going to have to do Twelfth Night again tonight and I’ll need to rebuild my energy before giving it all away again as Belch.

The show tomorrow is going to be in a recital hall. 23 rows of audience sharply raked down to five of us bouncing around on our big empty wooden stage. Behind us as we work looms a vast pipe organ. “Dammit,” says Claire. “Last time we were here we got to do it in a theatre”. Not that it matters though. The point is that we can do the show anywhere. This week turns out to be a recital hall in Austin.

We will carve out a little square of light and we will bring joy to a little spot in the heart of Texas. We’ve just spent a couple of hours working out the tech, such as it is. Heather is operating for us. She has a new baby but she’s enjoying being back on the job. This hall isn’t built for shows, so we only have six potential lighting states operated from a panel of buttons. She can see us on a monitor but she can’t hear us talking on stage. We are building in little visual cues for her so she can op the show deaf. I wonder how that pans out in performance. However it pans out, it’ll be a thing. Gotta love the live arts.

Tomorrow I’ve got to do an hour of poetry – and yeah I cheated a bit by throwing in The Rime of The Ancient Mariner to bolster up the time but I was obsessed with Coleridge as a kid so it’s fair. Tonight though I’m in my cowboy boots. We are going line dancing, baby. I thought I’d write half of this before we left knowing how likely it’ll be that my ability to write is negatively affected by my predilections.

Turns out it wasn’t line dancing. It was that waltzy shit they do. We went to The Broken Spoke. Claire and Katherine were in high demand when it became apparent that Kaffe and I were thoroughly incompetent. They got spun like no tomorrow by a couple of big galoots in ten gallon hats and then came back to share their findings with the group. “I think it’s ONE and two three ONE and two three. No it’s here, here, back and here and here here back and here.” I still have no idea, but I had good fun finding out I didn’t know, and when the base level is 0 any improvement feels like victory. The style of it was the thing I understood best. The more complicated the move, the less involved the man has to look, so long as he is competent. The best ones to watch were in the middle distance while the women were spinning like tops. I couldn’t do the indifferent skill without the skill but I began to appreciate the game of it.

And then I remembered why you have to either be in a relationship or get lucky when you put your cowboy boots on. Getting them off on your own requires a degree in engineering.

I managed it though, eventually. Now bed. Poems tomorrow… Joy? Joy.